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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958379">Play Out</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber'>inber</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angry Sex, Come Marking, Come Shot, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Jealousy, Name-Calling, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Oral Sex, Rivalry, Singing, Vaginal Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:34:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,478</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958379</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A Jaskier x Reader one shot. You steal Jaskier's gig, and he's not impressed about it. In fact, he seems not impressed by you at all. I love me some Feral Bard hatefuck, hope you do too!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Play Out</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier is sulking. Geralt is finding it a refreshing change of pace, because the bard is brooding into his wine, his boyish features furrowed with a frown. If this keeps up, the Witcher thinks, then he’ll have time to think about the complexities of the upcoming route in peace, and–</p><p>“I can’t <em>believe</em> they wanted me to open for her!” Jaskier explodes, and Geralt sighs so softly that it’s almost imperceptible. “Do they not know who I <em>am? </em>What I’ve done for music? How I’ve ached and bled – I’ve literally <em>bled,</em> Geralt – for my work! What’s<em> she </em>done? Turned up with a harp – a <em>harp,</em> Geralt – and probably, I don’t know, flashed her bosom at the tavern-keep. If she’s even pretty, that is. You can’t be pretty <em>and</em> talented.”</p><p>The Witcher makes a quiet grunt.</p><p>“Except for me. And you, I guess. Except you’re more… regally handsome. And I’m… <em>hmm</em>. Youthfully dashing. Yes.” He’s become absorbed in that thought, now, and Geralt lifts his ale to his lips. It sloshes when Jaskier pounds the table with a fist, and the Witcher closes his eyes, trying to locate the remnants of his tattered patience. “I just don’t understand!”</p><p>“Maybe she’s talented and you should shut up and <em>listen</em> for once.” Geralt growls, and Jaskier places a hand upon his breast, the offence blazing in his vivid blue eyes.</p><p>“More talented than <em>me?!</em>”</p><p>“How should I know?” The Witcher barks, drinking of his disturbed ale, “I’ll never get to hear her if you don’t close your damnable mouth.”</p><p>Jaskier huffs, and slumps over his wine, toying with the cup. “I shouldn’t have to open for <em>anyone.</em>” He mutters, and is summarily ignored.</p><p>You’re nervous. Of course you’ve played many a small inn, and a few larger taverns, but this audience is massive as compared to other crowds you’ve faced. It’s a silly thing for a solo performer to admit, but sometimes you get stage fright. Waiting to be announced as the next act can feel like waiting for an executioner to call your name.</p><p>There’s also something of a disappointment; the tavern-keep told you that Jaskier – known in some circles as the bard Dandelion – might be playing before you. However, he’s sat in a corner table with the unmissable Geralt of Rivia, his back to the stage, occasionally gesticulating. There’s another bard of lesser repute warming the crowd, although he’s doing a rather poor job; everyone is talking over him, and you’re fairly sure at one point he rhymed ‘orange’ with ‘borange’.</p><p><em>This is going to be a hard gig</em>, you think, clutching your faithful lap-harp.</p><p>“Our thanks to…” The tavern-keep squints at the poor bard, who mutters, and the man speaks again, “Talden of Kagen!” He applauds, and some of the crowd follows suit, although it sounds rather disinterested and short. “Next, for your entertainment…”</p><p>You stand as he introduces you, deepening your breath to try and find some calm, taking the stage with what you hope are slow, graceful steps. Much of the people begin to mutter amongst themselves; women are less popular as entertainment if they are clothed, and you see many backs already turning. You’re used to that.</p><p>Smiling at the tavern-keep, you take a seat, and settle your harp. You pluck a few strings, take a sip of the wine beside you, and launch boldly into your first song.</p><p>The whole place goes silent as a tomb under a midnight moon. Your voice, rich and soulful and precise, tells the tale you’ve written; a princess cursed to find unlikely love with a monster, who she meets in secret. It’s a song about misunderstanding, about perceptions of beauty, about hope and rebellion. It’s slow but powerful, and the last notes of the chorus linger in the air like expensive pipe-smoke, curling in twists to vanish into the rafters above.</p><p>For a heartbeat, the damn place is still quiet. You try not to let your body tremble, although your hands are gripping the edges of your harp as though it might be an anchor to ground you to the earth. And then the cheering begins.</p><p>The rowdy crowd stamp their feet and clap and howl their praise, and you feel yourself grinning, bowing your head in modest thanks, feeling the heat of pride and adrenaline nip at your breast. It’s actually difficult to begin your second song over the cacophony, but the men elbow one another with loud ’<em>shh</em>‘ing in an effort to properly hear you.</p><p>“Wow.” Geralt murmurs, in the corner the two have holed up in.</p><p>“<em>Really?</em>” Jaskier hisses, although he can’t tear his eyes away from the stage where you are performing, “You’re gonna give that a ’<em>wow</em>’? You’ve never ‘wow'ed at any of my songs, Geralt!” He tips the rest of his wine down his throat, and pours more from the jug. “Her rhymes are… they could use work, and did you hear that <em>chord</em> in the first verse? Totally off-key.”</p><p>“You sound like a jealous housewife.”</p><p>“I do <em>not–</em>” The bard trails off as you hit a high note with a thrilling trill, and a murmur ripples through the approving people. Every face in the joint is turned to you. He forgets his point as he listens to this, your third song. It’s faster-paced, a fun ballad about a girl who engages in a frisky romp with a stable-hand, forgets her knickers in the aftermath, and is caught in a windstorm on her way home. It’s always popular with men; Jaskier has to fight not to smile. But fight he does.</p><p>Even Geralt chuckles at the end, adding two beats of his hands as he claps with the audience, and the bard feels as though he’d be happier if the Witcher had punched him in the face.</p><p>“Why don’t you just travel with <em>her,</em> if you love her so much.” He pouts like a child, crossing his arms.</p><p>“If she knows the value of silence, maybe I will.” Geralt muses.</p><p>After your fourth song is sung, you take a break for wine, meeting those that would come and shake your hand and tip you with coin; it’s only halfway through your set and your pocket is heavy. You’re alive with gratitude and glee, thrilled that the patrons are taken by your tales. You’ve yet to eat a considerable meal, and so you try to kindly refuse the many offers of drink that are extended to you. Nobody wants to listen to a drunk crooner wailing off-key.</p><p>The rest of your set is flawless in the eyes of your audience, although you hear your mistakes and mentally catalogue them for inspection later, ever the perfectionist. As the last note of your last ballad – a song about the harshness of winter yielding to spring, told as a tale in which the seasons are personified as sisters – trills in the air, you’re given a standing ovation, and truly humbled, you curtsy as best as you know how. You’re not of noble blood, and it’s perhaps the clumsiest part of your routine, but after that voice, nobody really cares.</p><p>You collect your tips, and your evening’s payment, exhilarated; when you partake of drink now, the alcohol does affect you, the rush of performing ebbing from your blood-flow and allowing you to feel intoxication. Emboldened, you flirt back with men, laugh with women who have stories strikingly similar to your stable-hand’s tale, and nibble at food bought for you. You make your way through the crowd, and find yourself close to a man you’ve idolised for a time – and his rather enormous bodyguard, who doesn’t seem as fierce as the stories paint him to be. In fact, he looks contemplative, and you see something gentle in his peculiar eyes.</p><p>Jaskier, however, looks drunk.</p><p>Downing the remainder of your own cup, you approach the duo, and bow your head. “Well met, Geralt of Rivia, Dandelion–”</p><p>“My name is <em>Jaskier.</em>” He admonishes, squinting his beautiful blue eyes at you.</p><p>With a frown, you correct yourself. “Forgive me, Jaskier. I’ve heard <em>so many</em> of your songs. I wanted to tell you how deeply I admire your work.”</p><p>“Ohhh really?” He sing-songs, and you’re confused by the darkness in his stare. “Is <em>that</em> why you took my place on stage tonight? Admiration? <em>Ow,</em> Geralt–”</p><p>He’s clearly been kicked beneath the table. “Forgive him, my lady. What I’m sure he <em>means</em> to say is that you sing beautifully.” Geralt’s voice is the low promise of an avalanche, a gorgeous growl, and you feel the hair on your arms stand on end. The longer you linger there, the more you realise why they call him 'The White Wolf’.</p><p>“You are too kind, Geralt of Rivia” You accept, smiling, “I am pleased you enjoyed my work.” Your attention flicks back to Jaskier, who is pouring more wine. “I was unaware that you were to play… well, actually, I thought you were to play <em>before</em> me. I’m saddened that you did not.”</p><p>“Darling,” The bard purrs, “I don’t play <em>before</em> anyone. Don’t care how lovely she looks, don’t care how nice her rack—<em>ow! </em>Geralt, that’s my <em>leg.</em>”</p><p>The Witcher’s face reads <em>I know, you idiot, </em>and he looks at you with an apology in his cat-gold eyes. You’re uncomfortable and upset, fidgeting, and yet too nervous to simply flee. You hate the idea that you’ve upset Jaskier. “I-I’d no idea you had claim on this stage…”</p><p>“He has claim on<em> fuck all.</em>” Geralt rumbles, and you bite your lower lip.</p><p>“Well, he makes me wish I’d never come here.” You mutter, gripping your empty wine cup harder.</p><p>“I’m sure your father said something similar to your mother on the night of your conception, sweetheart.” Jaskier slurs.</p><p>The sound of your slap across his face is incredibly loud in the tavern, the force of it whipping his head; some people turn and chuckle, but you’re boiling with anger now, trembling.</p><p>“Good Witcher.” You bob your head in a bow, before storming off, pacing upstairs to your room. You cannot <em>believe</em> what an absolute dick Jaskier is, and the disappointment of it pricks your eyes with hot tears. You hate that you cry when you’re angry. It has been said that you should never meet your heroes, and now you understand why.</p><p>Geralt watches you leave, watches Jaskier stroke the side of his face that has a very clear red hand-print on it, and huffs in disgust. “That was uncalled for, bard.”</p><p>“<em>You’re</em> uncalled for!” Jaskier retorts, unable to access the part of his brain that allows for wit; he picks up the wine jug, stumbles into the elbow of a working girl dressed in red silks, and takes the both of them upstairs to his own room.</p><p><em>Well,</em> Geralt thinks to himself, nursing the rest of his ale, <em>least it’s quiet now.</em></p><p>—————</p><p>It’s months before fate sees fit to cross your paths again.</p><p>Your name is spreading, the humour and depth of your ballads second only to the tales of your siren-song voice, and you’re able to afford finer clothes and your own horse to travel. You stick to small inns at first, modestly, but they soon become packed out; in time, you play taverns and song-halls. The fame never gets to your head, though; you know that time changes all things, and that someone more talented will someday take the spotlight. For now, you try and enjoy yourself.</p><p>With your cloak-hood up, you enter a smaller establishment to simply have dinner and some wine alone, stabling your horse outside. Once you’ve secured a room, you turn to find somewhere to sit in the populated place, only to lay eyes upon Geralt – ever brooding in a corner, as is his wont. Jaskier doesn’t seem to be with him, and you recall his kindness, so you make your way over.</p><p>“Well met, Geralt of Rivia.” You bow your head as he looks up, surprised at the sudden company. “I’m–”</p><p>“The songstress with the harp. Yes, I remember.” He doesn’t smile, but there’s something about his mouth that is kind nonetheless.</p><p>“Forgive me, I hope I’m not interrupting. There are few places to sit.”</p><p>“Help yourself.” He gestures to the seat across from him, and with a thankful smile, you take it, placing your wine down.</p><p>“I’ve ordered food. I don’t wish to be rude and eat in front of you – may I order you something too?”</p><p>He grunts, quiet, and you don’t know what that means, so you catch the attention of a bar-maid and order him more ale.</p><p>“This man needs no introduction from me,” You hear a bar-keep speak behind you, and turn to the stage, “So what am I even doing up here?” He receives a pity laugh from the audience and, self-amused, he continues. “Please, a round of applause for Jaskier!”</p><p>As the bard takes the stage to various cheers, you feel your upper lip curling with disdain. <em>Ah, fuck.</em> Whipping your head around, you try to ignore the richness of his voice, and the clever way that he winds innuendo around words. The clear, practiced sound of his fingers on the lute-strings. <em>He has such long fingers</em>, you think, and then wonder where that thought manifested from.</p><p>Geralt is watching you over his new tankard, silent, and you begin to eat your dinner, trying not to stab the spatchcock too harshly with your fork. After a time, you meet the Witcher’s precious metal gaze in despair.</p><p>“Why does he hate me?” You whisper, and the Witcher <em>hmms </em>again.</p><p>“He doesn’t.” Is your reply, with no elaboration. You ponder that, recalling the last time you’d met, and work on your potatoes. Quietly, you offer one of the fat-roasted morsels to Geralt, who accepts it graciously, and you eat to the soundtrack of Jaskier’s song.</p><p>It’s such a nice background that you don’t even notice when he’s finished playing, until he’s at your table, hands on his hips. He’s staring at you with the same intensity as he did before, and you bristle, sipping your wine.</p><p>“You’re in my seat.” He remarks, and you raise your eyebrows.</p><p>“Don’t see your name on it.” You shoot back; Geralt watches the two of you like a tired parent.</p><p>Jaskier reaches over to your dinner, scooping up a fingerful of left-over gravy, and paints a 'J’ on the backrest of the wood. “There.” He declares, smug.</p><p>“<em>Gross.</em>” You hiss, standing, not wishing to get the mess upon your clothing. Triumphantly, he sits, and you roll your eyes. “You know, I <em>thought–</em>”</p><p>“It’s Y/N!” Someone calls, and you whip your head, the movement disturbing your cloak-hood enough for it to fall. So much for incognito. “Play us a song, darlin’!”</p><p>“Oh, I’m not here to…” You stammer, holding up your hands.</p><p>“No, go on,” Jaskier goads, nudging you, “Get on up there.”</p><p>You turn to glare at him, unstrapping your harp from your back. “<em>Fine.</em> Thanks for warming the stage for me.”</p><p>Stalking towards the steps that lead to the platform, you smirk as you hear him splutter behind you, and the quiet rumble of Geralt’s laughter.</p><p>“I like her.” The Witcher remarks, as you begin to play. He’s watching your performance, but you’re lost in the music as always, pouring your voice and soul into the song.</p><p>“<b>I </b>don’t.” Jaskier realises he has gravy on his sleeve, and tries to wipe it off.</p><p>“Yes you do.” Geralt notes, drinking more of his ale. He claps when you finish your tune, and you launch into another.</p><p>“I do <em>not.</em> She’s all…” He makes a wave of his hand, “You know? Better. I mean, she’s not better than<em> me.</em> But she<em> acts</em> like it. With her… ways.” The bard stares at the half-moon crescent of lipstick you’ve left on your wine cup, and wonders what your lips taste of. The thought makes him blink, hard.</p><p>“Her parents are dead.” Geralt mutters, and that catches Jaskier’s attention; all-too well he remembers what he’d said to you before.</p><p>“How do you know that?” He hisses lowly, feeling something that might be a stab of guilt tugging at his heart.</p><p>“The locket around her neck. Sometimes she toys with it absently, opens and shuts it. There’s a portrait of them in there.”</p><p>“So?” Jaskier dismisses, but his voice sounds weaker, “Maybe she’s just a daddy’s girl.”</p><p>“Listen.” Geralt directs, nodding at the stage.</p><p>The verse of your song is about loss, about suffering a shipwreck and finding yourself the only survivor atop driftwood in the centre of a merciless sea that toys and torments you. It’s about the harshness of salt and the sting of illusions that dance like phantoms on distant horizons. It’s about never quite reaching the shore. Some of the patrons are wiping their eyes, and Jaskier finds his own filling, his poet’s heart touched.</p><p>Alas, his idiot brain remains unscathed.</p><p>“People lose parents. How was <em>I </em>to know?” Hastily, he rubs his eyes as if he’s simply gotten something caught in them.</p><p>“You should apologise.” The Witcher suggests, and it’s the bard’s turn to grunt and lapse into silence.</p><p>When you’ve played a few songs and taken tips, you dip in your poor curtsy, and leave the stage. You don’t wish to return to Geralt – not with Jaskier present – and so you take your key from the keeper and go upstairs to your room.</p><p>Jaskier watches you ascend the steps, grits his teeth, and curses under his breath. After a few minutes, he rises, and follows. Smugly, the Witcher sinks back into his seat, and enjoys his precious silence again.</p><p>—————</p><p>The knock at your door is soft, so soft that you think you’ve imagined it. You’re removing your shoes, and only rise to answer when it comes again, barefoot on the hardwood floors. Perhaps a shy chambermaid is checking on you.</p><p>“I have everything I–” You begin, and are startled into silence when you see Jaskier standing there. His expression is peculiar, a mix of frustration and – anger? – and you cock your hip, placing a hand there. “Yes?”</p><p>“I just wanted to–” He starts, stuttering for the first time since you’ve known him, and you raise your eyebrows, “I needed to<em> tell you</em>…” His lapus-lazuli eyes meet your own, and he sucks in a sharp breath. “…Your curtsy. It’s <em>awful.</em> Were you never taught how?”</p><p>You square your shoulders and narrow your eyes, gripping the door handle tighter. “<em>That’s</em> why you came up here? To tell me how to <em>curtsy?</em>” Incredulity drips from your tone.</p><p>“Well, if you’re going to thank your audience, you shouldn’t do it so… <em>sloppily.</em>” He tells you, straightening his spine, his annoyance matching your own.</p><p>“I <b>hate</b> you.” You hiss, and his upper lip curls.</p><p>“I hate <b>you, </b>too.” He spits back, and for a long moment you face off like that, the tension pulsing between you, the echoes of your emotions grating together like bare flesh on sea-bitten limestone.</p><p>In the next instant, you’re in his arms, and he’s kissing you with such intensity that he robs your breath, but you aren’t even aware because you’re kissing him back, scratching your hands through his hair, licking up the heat of his mouth, trading groans as he bites your lip and you suckle his cupid’s bow. He slams the door in his wake with his foot, and your hands grip the collar of his fine jerkin, tearing. Buttons pop off like dried corn over a flame, and your greedy fingers rake down his chest, through the hair, leaving vivid red claw-lines. He moans, nudging you back towards the bed, tugging hard at the corset that cinches your waist until he tires of the exercise and jerks the bask open, bending metal.</p><p>You fall back onto the mattress and he’s upon you, unwilling to be away from your lips for long; he kisses you as though you’re the only water he’s ever drunk, the only way to slake his thirst, and you match his ferocity, gasping for breath each time you briefly part. He shoves the skirts of your dress up, plants dirty, open-mouthed kisses at your neckline, bruises your collarbone with a suckling pop of skin. You pant beneath him, feeling his fingers at the ties of your knickers, unlacing them to pull the wettened cotton fabric down your legs. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watch with half-lidded eyes as he fixates his gaze upon your own – a clear river at springtime – and runs the flat of his tongue in a hard stripe up from your cunt to your clit, tasting you. The whimper that spills from your swollen lips is the only encouragement he needs.</p><p>He fits his mouth around the pearl of your clit and runs his tongue-tip in circles, sealing the contact in a suck, as two of his long, calloused fingers enter you, stretching, curving upwards. Your head falls back and you moan, fisting the bedspread; there was <em>definitely</em> a reason you’d thought of his hands before. He finger-fucks you like you’re the most finely crafted instrument in the world, exploring your crying cunt with a musician’s delicacy, finding the chords inside you that make you <em>really</em> sing; he maintains the pressure and consistent attention at your bud as he strokes you, his arm not tiring. When he finds your rhythm and he’s nuzzling the nerves at your mons with the slant of his nose, you’re openly squealing and chanting his name, bucking, a sweaty mess of tremors. “<em>Come</em> for me, you little <em>bitch.</em>” He hisses at your cunt, and you absolutely <em>do.</em></p><p>The pulse of your pussy is fierce, the wash of your juices soaking his mouth and dripping to settle like dew on his chest hair; he moans with you, playing the music of your orgasm out as you crescendo; he keeps you at the peak, mindless and shaking, until you’re so hypersensitive that he withdraws, kissing your inner thighs, your mound, your stomach. When the rush is over, you find yourself aching and needy, wanting more of him. You kick him away with bare feet and he stumbles back, his ass hitting the floor; he grunts with bewilderment, looking furious, 'til you stand and pull your dress from your shoulders, letting it puddle on the ground. You’re an absolute <em>goddess</em> nude before him, and he stares in wonderment; you let him enjoy the sight of you for mere seconds before you’re on him, straddling his lap on the floor, kissing him again.</p><p>You taste the salt of yourself on his lips and both of you moan into the filthy embrace, your hands making quick work of his belt and the laces of his breeches that are hindering your exploration of him. His cock is beautiful, fitting his size; it curves slightly towards his body, and you shudder in anticipation, aware of how you can play that delicious angle in your favour. Your lips leave his, as you stroke him; he’s already red and weeping precome, and he lifts his hips into your grasp, lowly groaning. When you sink your puffy fucked-out cunt onto his length in one hard downward thrust, you bite the delicate skin of his neck at the same time, marking him. He <em>howls</em> at the differing sensations; the vice-tight heat of you, and the sharp pain. His hands fly to your hips, gripping.</p><p>The way you ride him is <em>merciless</em>, a power-fuck; he raises his hips to meet the roll of yours, nuzzles the bounce of your tits, hisses his delirium in whorls of breath as you take your pleasure from him, and gift him his own in return. He feels <em>amazing,</em> the ridge of his cock rubbing your g-spot again and again as you rut on the floor, and your second climax begins to threaten your walls, a flutter, a tale of an incoming inferno.</p><p>He rolls with you, cradling your head with care as he pushes you into the fur of the rugs before the fireplace; he lifts one of your legs up high onto his shoulder, allowing him deeper entrance, and rubs his string-calloused thumb over your engorged clit. You’re wailing, open mouthed, and he’s snarling like some feral beast, fucking you into the rugs so hard that you’ll both have friction burn, but you can’t feel that, you can’t feel <em>anything</em> but excruciating ecstasy as he undoes you again, making you buck in uneven jerks beneath him, the rake of your nails leaving savage marks at his back. “Fuck, <em>fu-uck,</em> you–” You sob, “Fucking <em>bastard,</em> oh <em>fuck!</em>”</p><p>With a roar he hunches over you, holding you as close as he possibly can as the tail-end of your orgasm milks his own from him; he comes furiously, his teeth pinched pearly together until some semblance of sense hits him. With a gasp he pulls out, and spends the rest of his load on your belly and breasts, frantically stroking the pleasure from his throbbing cock as he stares at you beneath him, writhing. He is wracked with it, <em>destroyed</em> by it; when he’s drained, he’s still pulsing and shaking, and he’s forced to collapse at your side to catch his breath and recover.</p><p>In the aftermath, you bask, letting small fragments of memory return to the lust-haze you’re nesting in. Wincing, he pulls a silk scarf from his breast pocket, and begins to clean your come-marked body with gentle reverence.</p><p>“Well, <em>that–</em>” You begin,</p><p>“I didn’t <em>mean–</em>” He starts. You both pause, and nervously chuckle.</p><p>“I don’t really hate you.” He admits, looking so vulnerable that you are silent, listening. “I… Gods help me, I was so <em>jealous.</em> I’ve never heard a voice like yours. I wanted to make it mine so much that I think I just… rejected you <em>entirely,</em> because…” He places the scarf down, “Why would such a voice want anything to do with mine?”</p><p>You reach up to palm his face, gently, and smile. “I don’t hate you, either. I think you’re a <em>jerk</em>, but I don’t hate you.”</p><p>He sighs, and settles back down. “Deserved. What I said – what I’ve said – there’s no excuse. I am sorry for treating you so poorly.” When his baby-blues fix upon your eyes, you have no more quarrel; you melt.</p><p>“Forgiven.” You whisper, rolling to spoon into his side. “Hmm. Would you… perhaps… like to write a song together, sometime?”</p><p>His eyebrows raise in surprise, and he can’t hide the eagerness in his voice, one octave higher than usual. “Really?”</p><p>“Of <em>course.</em> Jaskier, I want everything to do with your voice. <em>And</em> the mouth that comes with it.”</p><p>The grin he gifts you is boyish and charming, whilst somehow hinting at all kinds of lust and fuckery. He’s a walking juxtaposition. “I’d love that.” Taking your hand, he presses his mouth against your fingertips, one by one. “And I’ll even let you sing<em> first.</em>”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! I can also be found on tumblr: @inber</p></blockquote></div></div>
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